


Master's Favourite - Or: Injured knees can cause some trouble

by Violencio



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Blood, Breathplay, Caning, Choking, Collars, Corporal Punishment, Cruelty, Desperation, Dom/sub, Elements, Emotional Manipulation, Fear, Force Choking, Graphic Description, Greg is a naive well meaning bean, Greg might have some unhealthy crushes though, Hand Feeding, Humiliation, Hurt, Just being keen on making one character an asshole, Leashes, Little Aftercare, M/M, Manipulation, Masochism, Master & Servant, Master Mycroft, Master/Pet, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Medical Examination, Most of these things are, Non-Consensual Spanking, Non-Sexual, Non-Sexual Slavery, Not Safe Sane and Consensual, Ownership, Pain, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Power Play, Public Humiliation, Punishment, Puppy Play, S&M, Sadism, Self-Worth Issues, Serious Injuries, Slave Greg, Slave Trade, Slavery, Slaves, Slaves are treated worse than animals, Spanking, Stockholm Syndrome, Struggling, Teasing, This is not a slavery abolition fic, Toying, Unhealthy Relationships, Whipping, Will Update As Time Goes on - Freeform, Will mention biiiiig no-no triggers in the notes above each chapter when they come up, and also probably an idiot, denied medical treatments, emphasis on big, foot worship, humiliating, mindless adoration, shoe worship, spare, sub human characters, systematic punishment, yes it is Mycroft, you guys are not getting another warning that Greg is going to be slapped a lot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-13
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-23 23:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9686723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violencio/pseuds/Violencio
Summary: The slave rose his shoulders defensively as he heard the stop of his Master's shoes. He had just polished them the other day, but right now he didn't even dare to glance towards them to admire the shine he had managed to get on them. Sometimes, Master would even let him polish his shoes while still wearing them, reading the newspaper or checking his mails.It was easy to keep close in times like that, maybe even sneak an appreciating nod out of his Master, and on very rare occasions, a stray hand might find its way into his hair as well.Mycroft had generously considered Gregory only fractionally more intelligent than the rug he stepped on, even then, the carpet never lifted its corner in defiance; it knew its place, and currently, it appeared Gregory did not.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of my all time favourite RPs I'm currently having, and I couldn't not share what my wonderful RP partner comes up with x 
> 
> Updates will come about twice a week in this length until this catches up with our RP. 
> 
> Yep, this is dark. I'm sure you guys will like it. x

Being Master's favourite was a good thing. 

Well, yes, Gregory was the first one to get to feel his irritation whenever work or personal matters took a sour turn, but even considering this the young man could not complain.   
He liked staying close, liked listening to his Master sighing and moaning and complaining about work, with one hand in his hair, and the other offering a biscuit from time to time.   
Liked to stay close and simply breath to give his Master the feeling of another presence as the telly was running.   
Liked to kneel next to his side when he was working because it meant he didn't need to do his chores in this time. Of course, though, when Master was on business trips or running behind his brother, Greg would obediently do what had to be done.   
The other day though... He had been helping in the stables when one of the horses panicked and kicked against his shoulder, making him fall on his knees -- and possibly crack something. He was not quite sure, but... his knees hurt as hell. And he had been sure that he would tell his Master -- but the man seemed so irritated this morning, Greg has not dared to speak up before he sank to his knees next to him. For a while, kneeling went well. He had years and years of practice, after all, it hardly bothered him to stay on his knees for a couple of hours. Then, though, he realised that the only reason kneeling went well was because he couldn't feel his feet anymore, his knees slowly starting to hurt more and more, while a tingly, numb feeling ripped through his thighs. His knees must be swollen, the position cutting his blood flow off…   
After time passed, and it was finally time to go home again, he saw Master stand up and move forward, making a movement for Greg to follow but -- he didn't. Couldn't. His legs didn't even want to twitch, and he was still too scared, still too shy to even mention it. Instead, he simply turned his head away, refusing eye contact, pretending as if he had not even noticed his Master trying to leave his study and his work.

Were it not for the fact that Mycroft had been exposed to obedient, lesser beings across the years his life; where his upbringing had been decorated by foreign hands under the order of his father's words-- where he would rely on their convenience for tedious, lacklustre abilities, rather than their company or necessity, the eldest of the Holmes brothers would never humour the idea of taking a piece of filth under his wing.   
Gregory was only marginally less inadequate than the nameless hands that scrubbed the floor. Mycroft had an incredibly fragile temper under the correct setting, where business and Sherlock weren't involved to bear the full burn of it; tonight was one of those nights and even Gregory's breathing was trying his nerves. A cold glance of his eyes was cast down on the kneeling thing, and the only reason Mycroft hadn't kicked him then, was not one of mercy, but inconvenience. There would be plenty of time to vent his frustrations at home, rather than jeopardising his professionalism (Anthea would never look twice, regardless).   
Years prior, he may have snapped his fingers to indicate an order, but Gregory had learned through acute training, that he should be aware and able to decipher his Master's moods and wishes without demonstration on Mycroft's part.

Or so he thought.

A steely silence followed the brisk pause of his Berluti's at the doorway in an uncharacteristic, bitter, display of mercy. Perhaps his temper could not wait the trip home. A turn of his shoes and the solid click of the door, locked, orchestrated across Mycroft's study.

The slave rose his shoulders defensively as he heard the stop of his Master's shoes. He had just polished them the other day, but right now he didn't even dare to glance towards them to admire the shine he had managed to get on them. Sometimes, Master would even let him polish his shoes while still wearing them, reading the newspaper or checking his mails.   
It was easy to keep close in times like that, maybe even sneak an appreciating nod out of his Master, and on very rare occasions, a stray hand might find its way into his hair as well.   
Right now though, Greg was aware that he was the furthest away from anything comparable. Usually, he might have crawled on his knees towards his Master, begging for mercy, but... he couldn't even _feel_ his legs any more, his knee caps pulsing in pain, making him wonder if the rest of his body was going to hurt the same or more once Master would be done with him. ...taking into account the crippling pain of his knees, it was quite possible it would be less.   
He bowed his head deeply, raising his shoulders, both to defend himself, as well to show quite clearly that he was accepting the punishment. That he was aware of his misbehaviour.   
If he wasn't so scared, if this was only an act of defiance, he might have spoken now. Tried to explain himself. But his throat was tight and his mouth dry, the slave having to part his lips to catch enough breath. It was not as if he wanted to cause a scene. He knew what he was meant to do, and he _tried_ to, but his legs would not obey to him anymore. And that was more than enough reason for his Master to be angry. Of course he would be, Greg didn't expect anything else. ...and still that didn't mean that it terrified him. Yet, he avoided to look at his Master, just tilting his head a little, exposing his cheek, allowing his Master easy access for an open handed slap across his face.   
As close to an apology he could force himself to make, throat tight in shame and fear.

To say Mycroft was confused would imply that the eldest Holmes emitted even a fraction of concern for the inadequate _thing_ sitting on his floor. More accurately, he was mildly mystified at the utter insolence Gregory expelled every millisecond he didn’t launch himself at the man’s feet and lick the leather for forgiveness.   
He had generously considered Gregory only fractionally more intelligent than the rug he stepped on, even then, the carpet never lifted its corner in defiance; it knew its place, and currently, it appeared Gregory did not. Rarely did Mycroft lack in better judgment. It was the simple fact that he had granted Gregory the title of slightly-above-stupid, wrongfully it seemed—and Mycroft despised being wrong—that compelled the man to approach his quivering charge and connect the curved, glistening handle of his umbrella with Gregory’s head.   
He did not speak, did not need to, in order to spell his message. Mycroft stood patiently, watching his slave scramble on the floor while the Holmes lifted the umbrella again. Rather than applying a matching bruise to the opposite side of the thing’s head, he pressed the tip against the flesh of his neck, applying pressure. Gregory would be wise to explain himself, and attempt to make amends as quickly as his blubbering mouth would allow if he wished to leave the office without permanent damage. Already he considered the highest price he could obtain from the whimpering thing. It was of no use to him if it couldn’t follow a simple command. Pity.  
Master seemed to be even more disappointed than Gregory had expected him to. Being hit was one thing, being hit by the umbrella on the other side... He gasped for air, the blow having thrown him from his knees onto the side of his bum, the slave wailing out in the sudden shot of pain coming from both his legs, hardly being bothered by his smarting head. The hit might leave a bruise - but at least Greg could _feel_ it.   
...that meant his legs had to be quite bad, no? Possibly... possibly too bad to even bother getting them right again?   
For another moment he considered not to explain himself, to just hope Master would get so angry to leave him here for some time alone so he could try to stand up again without the pressure of having to observe the decencies. As the tip of the umbrella moved to his neck, though...   
Greg swallowed, his eyes widening, leaning back as much as he could to lighten the pressure, though his legs were still not twitching. His fingers were, wanting to push the thing away from him, but Greg was not stupid enough to do that.   
Instead, his gaze did flicker to his Master, not above his waistline, of course, fear and guilt hazing his eyes, the piece of metal and plastic at his throat finally lifting the tightness he felt before.   
"I- I'm sorry, Sir, I am sorry, I am _so_ sorry, I do not -- I didn't want to be a bother, Sir, I never would, I swear, I... I can't feel my legs, Master. ...can't feel them.", he started to sputter in apology, the last repetition somewhere lost between a whimper and a mewl, the young man's shoulders shaking violently by now. 

Odd, Gregory knew how his Master felt about fibbing.   
It was extraordinarily unwise to attempt it, and Mycroft was clearly lacking a graceful mood. He silently considered the events following his return from a brief visit with Sherlock—another frown illuminated his features, casting shadows between small crevices of stress lines as interacting with his younger sibling typically would.   
A recollection of his slave’s behaviour implied that Gregory may not be fibbing at all. He’d been slower at reacting to simple tasks such as kneeling, however Mycroft assumed the young man had experimented different manners in which to seek his attention. With that afterthought, he’d lifted his umbrella from Gregory’s throat as the last of his apology was uttered from chapped, nervously fiddled lips. 

Ah, but it was certainly his slave’s fault for not voicing his discomfort sooner; any sympathy he may have contemplated granting Gregory was lost in the slave’s stupidity, and he nudged the nearest limb. A carefully crafted, twin set of brows lifted marginally upon receiving the obvious reaction of discomfort above the numbness poor circulation caused. They’d been in his study for quite some time, after all.   
He knew not the extent of the damage, or how it’d occurred—wasn’t certain he cared enough to demand further details although it appeared he would go home alone tonight. Why were slaves so entirely useless?  
He could feel the beginnings of a headache occurring at the back of his head. Mycroft didn’t have time for this.   
Frowning, Holmes reached into his pocket to retrieve Gregory’s leash; he needn’t use it outside of social gatherings to exemplify his ownership of the younger man, when the simple collar wrapped snugly around his neck wasn’t enough.   
“Then crawl.” The statement was simple, callous, as he clipped the leash in place and delivered a firm tug, clearly disregarding Gregory’s dilemma. He could drag himself outside if he wanted to, if he wasn’t entirely useless.

Greg did not quite dare to breath out in relieve as the umbrella was removed. It wasn't over yet, and he'd be a fool to think himself being safe.   
Still, his shoulders calmed from shaking now, and that was at least a start to have his mind stop spinning in fear. Another hiccupped little mewl escaped his lips as his leg was nudged, his thigh twitching but his leg staying in place.   
He could only hope Master would believe him. There wasn't anything Master was aware of that might have caused the injury. Greg was used to kneeling for years now, and while he remembered it being a little uncomfortable when he was just a little fellow, it really didn't bother him nowadays.   
Except... well, now.   
"Crawl?", he repeated a little dumbfounded, eyes wide and attentive, if not clearly scared. Crawling should be... possibly. Somehow. No later than the pull on his leash the slave forced himself forward onto his palms and knees, biting the inside of his cheek not to hiss.   
His feet felt like dead weight dragging behind him, as if they hadn't been there for all his life, and he could practically hear the soft cracking noises of his knee caps adjusting. It were his hands dragging him forward, Greg forcing himself forward and... close, closer to his Master, his cheek moving to nuzzle against his leg.   
Like a dog, Greg thought.   
Crawling, whining, looking for forgiveness with his face pressed against his owner.   
He was probably going to be kicked away, but that was fine.   
All that was fine if Master would just see his effort to be good. 

Mycroft didn’t humour the echo of his command. To his delight, his charge made a point to launch forward and attempt to keep up with Mycroft as he strode to the door for a second time that evening, pausing to open it.   
The whispers of cloth moving almost hesitantly behind him, and a glimpse of pale skin darted in his peripheral alongside a head of his slave as the only indication that Gregory was indeed moving. A slight pressure was met with his calf and the Englishman allowed it, momentarily, before a second strike of his umbrella was delivered, this time to Gregory’s back.   
He should know better than to touch his Master unbidden, after all, and Mycroft was still in a foul mood.   
Heavy oak flew open, only narrowly avoiding Gregory’s slower body by the doorway. Moments later, they were efficiently navigating the halls leading to the exit. The leash would sporadically become taut with tension as Gregory fumbled about, regaining enough strength to drag his body along. 

It was a pitiful sight, certainly. Despite it, no one spared his slave a second glance, save for impatient pedestrians attempting to steer around him in order to continue the journey to their destination. Fortunately for Greg, Mycroft detested walking amidst crowds and had arranged for his ride to meet them on the block adjacent to his office.   
“Come along.” Gregory hadn’t ceased his whimpering, and he supposed the silent treatment was ineffective, anyway. He seated himself comfortably on the plush leather, toying with the idea of making Gregory walk home. 

Perhaps another time.   
With his gaze focused on his mobile, Mycroft didn’t indicate where he wanted Greg to place himself, mutely arranging for a medic to assess the slave’s condition. If the damage was irreversible, he’d replace the man for someone more efficient. Both of them were keenly aware of this. 

Greg did not have the time to cower as the brolly was once more put into contact with him forcefully.   
He remembered being asked by some of the other slaves working in the garden if it was worse to be hit by the umbrella than it was to be hit with a cane, and Greg honestly wasn't sure. He'd say it was just as painful, but... the umbrella at least felt somehow personal. That wasn't too much comfort, but one learned quickly to keep oneself up with every little bit of compassion one could find if one had to. 

If it wasn't for the pain in his legs, Greg might actually have felt far more humiliated being lead through the corridors, with anyone who bothered to turn his head down being able to see him in such a low position – even for a slave. But now, his mind was just focused on hurrying up, following Master, and the throbbing feeling of pins and needles as his legs got back to work. The leash pulling on his neck, making it bend uncomfortably to regain breathing easily was certainly not helping either.   
And still the slave's quiet whimpering and creaking ceased immediately as something close to hope spread in his chest as Master bothered to speak to him.   
The young man was almost about to once more nuzzle against his Master's knees, but caught himself with the realisation that now it would be far less appreciated than it has been before. Insecurely, the slave climbed into the car, shifting a little from one knee to another, but didn't raise from them. If he was meant to crawl, he certainly wasn't going to heave himself onto the seats without being allowed to, and with Master not appreciating being touched right now, kneeling right next to him might be a bad idea as well.   
Well...   
Kneeling might be a bad idea. Instead, he half knelt, half sat on his bum in the foot space of the other passenger seat, placing his head onto the little elevation between the two seats, making himself small.   
The only thing he could hope for was Master not already looking for replacement on his phone right now.


	2. Chapter 2

The ride home was silent for the most part, decorated only by the faint voices of a radio turned low at the front seat. On a good day, Mycroft would have Gregory kneel between his legs, chin atop his knee whilst the man toyed with the dishevelled strands of hair tickling his thigh, idly checking his email. When Greg had been exceptionally well behaved, he’d allow the man to join him on the seats—those were rare occasions, not because Gregory misbehaved, simply because Mycroft rewarded him sparingly; didn’t want to spoil him.

A thin blanket of grey loomed over the city, casting its residents with a gentle mist. Fifteen minutes later, they pulled into a compact parking garage, shielding them from the soft pitter patter of raindrops. Only then did Mycroft look down from his phone to the crouched slave, face impassive.   
“You are to go upstairs, quickly, and present yourself to Doctor Heinef.” Two fingers darted, catching his slave’s collar between them with a firm yank. He led the slender man by his neck, outside of the vehicle, taking their position to further study his countenance for any indication that he only sought his Master's attention.   
A click indicated he’d unclipped the leash from Greg, “Do not give her trouble.” The threat was implied, and they parted ways. Mycroft presumably headed to his chambers, making no move to ensure his charge obeyed; he had more pressing matters to attend to and would see to it that Gregory was properly disciplined if he decided to rebel. He intended to check up on the doctor and his charge afterwards. 

Greg was usually quite fond of any attention his Master would give him, but for now he was quite happy that he was spared it, giving him the illusion of privacy to prod and pinch his legs, trying to get his blood back to flowing like it should. It hurt quite a bit, but already halfway through the ride he was able to move his toes once more. 

He gained the sense of his feet back no moment too early, with Master soon enough dragging him out of the vehicle, Greg's limbs tangling in another as he hurried to follow. His legs were still weak, his knees shaky, but he stood without support, and that was at least a start.   
The slave nodded quickly, teeth clicking together through the sheer force of his own nod. "No, Sir, of course not. I will be good.", he promised, voice still more on the shaky side of matters, but clear enough not to mumble. Greg did not even dare to glance after his Master as he left, moving his legs one by the other to turn around and find Doctor Heinef. He... was still not sure if the doctor was actually just there for the slaves, or kept close by in case anything would happen to Mycroft or his guests, but either way, he knew that he should be happy to have someone at home, instead of having to be dragged out to a vet in the city. He shuddered lightly at his own thoughts, his hand darting up to his forearm unconsciously, where he has been given countless painful shots, before he finally arrived at Dr. Heinef's office, knocking softly, just... just hoping that he'd be in a fine enough condition for Master to at least consider letting him stay as a gardener instead of selling him off. 

Cool water trickled down his neck, washing away any soap residue he’d laved on his skin. A second coating followed, the minty aroma seeping to his sinuses, aiding in obtaining a sense of tranquillity after extensive hours at his desk where he formulated adequate propositions for Her Majesty and his co-workers to execute. He glanced in the mirror before him, noting the opaque appearance reflected back at him. It simply wouldn’t do. Following a moment’s contemplation, Mycroft undressed. Scalding water worked the thick muscle tissue at his shoulder blades and, for a moment, Mycroft was blissfully subdued by the allure of a solid pounding. The water pressure was magnificent. 

Nearly twenty minutes later, he resurfaced dressed smartly in a crisp shirt and sleek trousers. A moment’s brief consideration led Mycroft down the corridor to the infirmary rather than to the kitchen where he intended to fix himself a cuppa, with the addition of his favourite biscuits. Rather deal with business first, rather than putting it off. His mood had been significantly lifted, if only briefly, before he was met with an open door, revealing Gregory seated upon the cold surface of a bleached countertop. Heinef was seated as well, levelled with his slave’s knees. Upon closer inspection, clear bruises bloomed across ceramic skin, and Gregory seemed to experience open discomfort as the doctor pressed this way and that, applying pressure and knocking on the bone with a rubber mallet in order to test its reflex.   
Mycroft had yet to reflect on Greg’s position in his household. He’d grown…fond, of the man, at least as close as he was capable of in the span of time they’d been acquainted. He had been the man’s Master for close to five years, and while Gregory still had a lot to learn in regards to suiting Mycroft’s needs, he’d come the closest to sating him. He didn’t voice this, however, simply stood beside the doctor, staring the man down coolly.

Greg's knees were covered in blue, black and yellow. His skin wasn't torn, just slightly scratched, but the slave could have sworn it had not looked half that bad the last time he had checked.   
It kind of reminded him of the painting Master had in his library - wasn't it meant to show some French town at night? - all swirly dark marks on his usually so flesh coloured skin.   
It wasn't... difficult to say that the doctor hasn't been too happy. Less about the knees than about the U-shaped bruise on his lower back. "Could have torn your kidney apart.", she had said. "You were lucky, stupid boy.", she had said. "Should have come here directly. Could have expired in the most horrible ways without your Master even noticing." Greg did not really feel lucky, sitting on the counter top in nothing but his briefs. He would have been happier about torn kidneys than about not being able to kneel. Stupid horse. 

As Greg heard the steps, he glanced up from his own knees he had been starring at as the doctor continued to prod and to try, wide eyes looking at his Master hopefully. Just for a moment though, the cold gaze of his Master making him lower his head once more in shame. "Ah, Mr. Holmes.", Dr. Heinef said, glancing over her shoulder. "Would you like to come in to discuss the results so far?", she invited, before leaning back and slipping out of the thin rubber gloves to take her clipboard. 

Irritation, cold with sharp edges exposed at the corner of his mouth, soon replaced the warm serenity that had softened his eyes under the spray of the showerhead. Mycroft stepped closer, well into his charge’s space, and tangled his fingers callously into the short strands.   
“Why, certainly.” His eyes didn’t leave his slave’s bowed head. Gregory’s condition was fully exposed to Mycroft, then. He didn’t feel sympathy, nor did he pity the young fool for his incompetence, only assessing the damage to his possession and weighing the options presented to him.   
Dr. Heinef quietly listed the slave’s abilities—and limitations— with careful eyes peering into Mycroft’s own. Both were impassionate, speaking of Gregory as though he weren’t sitting between them, exposed and observing the exchange occurring before him. Gregory would be out of commission for at least three weeks. No fractures, as far as Heinef could evaluate, but definite strain on the ligaments and obvious bruising. If Mycroft wanted to, he could still order his slave to continue as per usual, although it would undoubtedly hinder any progress and complicate his condition. The doctor advised him against this; commenting on the net worth of a slave decreasing with extensive permanent damage. Gregory’s chores would have to be assigned to someone more capable, and it became clear that for the time prescribed, the man would be no more useful than talking furniture. Perhaps, granted a wheelchair was provided, he could continue his daily routine.   
If Mycroft was capable of concerning himself for Gregory’s wellbeing outside of personal gain, he may have order a wheelchair and allowed the man to skip out on his chores altogether. The investment wasn’t worth it, he decided. Slender fingers gripped the prominent line of his servant’s chin, and he lifted his head to meet Mycroft’s piercing glare. “How, pray tell, did this occur? Hm?”

The young slave pushed his head back into the hand in his hair, staying still apart from that. He didn't know it any other way than people talking over his head, and was therefore not too bothered by it.   
He still tensed as the doctor specified for how long she advised him not to work. ...three weeks were a long time, making Greg bite the inside of his cheek again. Maybe he could beg his Master to just sent him to the kitchen in that time? He wouldn't have to kneel, could sit and peel potatoes or wash dishes instead, not applying any pressure to his knees, not allowing them to swell and jam his nerves again. As soon as his chin was lifted though, Greg decided to at least not ask for it now. Master was apparently still considering to keep him around -- why else would he ask about the cause? If he wanted to sell him, that certainly was not necessary - and he wouldn't want to crash this little bit of a possibility by being too forward. Still, explaining how this happened... It made him just as uncomfortable as ashamed as it always did to admit how little of a good slave he has been.   
"...the mare panicked as her filly was taken to be branded, Sir.", he admitted softly, his gaze dropping back to his knees while his head stayed where it was in Mycroft's hand. "...I didn't get out of the way quickly enough as she turned and started to kick, Sir, I'm sorry.", he continued his explanation, pretty sure that this should be quite enough and that he didn't have to worry about having babbled too much instead of giving his Master the answer he deserved. 

Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Not at the timidity expressed by his slave, whom appeared unable to meet his eyes, but for his inability to process his surroundings in an adequate manner that—where he to have heeded the multiple lectures his Master had attempted to teach him—could have been avoided if he’d just observed. Manicured nails pressed into the soft skin beneath the pads of his fingers, a silent punishment, as he turned the man’s face back down and, once more, wound his hand into Gregory’s hair.   
“Have you thanked the doctor for going out of her busy schedule to diagnose your stupidity? If you haven’t done so, now will be a proper time.” His hand tightened its grip, yanking Greg’s head up once more toward Heinef. “Excuse my servant; it seems the mare may have done more damage to his cranium than to his knees, he’s forgotten his manners. We will be going now.” There was a brief pause at the doorway, enough for the younger male to gather himself and do as he was told before following the Englishman out the door.   
He had observed the slighter man since they’d been reacquainted, and he appeared parched for water and approval all the same. It appeared guilt, amidst a series of other conflicting emotions decorated Gregory’s mind, causing the servant to lag in addition to his injuries.   
“I suppose you are aware of what this means, yes?” Whether it was a rhetorical question, even the man’s Master was uncertain. The choice had been made, he’d keep Gregory, if only because training another would be too time-consuming, something he could not afford.  
Greg thought, that even the nails on his scalp weren't half as bad, as they meant that Mycroft's fingers still had to find their way over his face. But being reminded of what he has forgotten was clearly worse, making him blush in the embarrassment he felt for showing himself this badly around his Master. "...apologies, ma'am, of course I am very grateful for the time you have given me. Thank you very much, I will do my best to not waste your time ever again, ma'am.", he promised softly, his blush spreading over his cheeks to his neck to finally his exposed chest. With a bit of concern Greg glanced up as his Master spoke of a damaged... cranium. He was not quite sure what that was -- but he could just hope it wasn't too bad.   
He nodded lightly, before pushing himself from the counter, hurrying to step into his trousers and get his shirt back on, still closing the last button as he hurried after his Master. "Thank you, Dr. Heinef.", he repeated, before leaving the room. 

Obediently, he kept just the right amount of distance, careful to make everything right not to displease his Master any further, but still his hands felt sweaty. He walked too far behind his Master, even if slightly shifted, for him to see him shaking his head insecurely, but he couldn't quite help himself than to do it anyway. "...I'm... I'm afraid not, Sir?", he admitted softly, eyebrows creasing in worry, pressing his teeth and lips together.   
A response to his question was not granted until Master and slave entered the man’s private chambers. Mycroft made a point of becoming comfortable, taking a seat on a plush armchair and thumbing through his latest read. Stilled silence lingered in the air for what appeared to be eons, broken only by the soft shuffling of paper against his fingers.   
He spoke, “I will not dispose of you, yet. Do not misinterpret my generosity as deeming you valuable; on the contrary, you are not worth the trouble of finding a replacement.” It was then that his grey eyes fixed themselves on Gregory, travelling across his visage for any visible flinches, a reaction. “I will not avidly seek a better slave unless given a reason to.” His words were curt, amplified by the loud slam of his book on the neighbouring oak.   
“Go to the library and fetch me my files, as well as a cup of tea. I expect you recall my preferences. Once you’ve returned—quickly—I expect you to sit rather than kneel as you would. You are dismissed.” Without a second glance, Mycroft leaned back, unfolding the morning paper from the crevice between cushion and arm, and examined the contents with a loud snap of the paper. A small tear followed the violent strain, giving away more than enough evidence of the Master’s thoughts on the entire situation.

The slave didn't mind to wait. Well, that was not quite true. It was tearing on his strained nerves quite a bit, but... there was not much he could do, so he was just going to have to deal with it. A bit insecurely, he stopped in front of his Master's armchair, arms clasped behind his back. Usually, he'd just move to kneel next to his Master now, but not only were they still in a conversation, he also was not quite sure about what Master's opinion on Dr. Heinef's advise was yet. 

Both relief and understanding flooded Greg's face as he nodded quickly at his Master's words. That was... that was okay. He could still prove himself to be good, could still prove that this was a one-time-thing and would never happen again. Nothing half as stupid as that, even. "Thank you, Sir, I am very grateful.", he assured him quickly, head still bobbing in nods, just stopping as he jumped lightly at the slam of the book.   
"Yes, Sir, thank you.", he said, before he scrambled himself to leave the room, too much in a hurry to even realize the tearing of his Master's newspaper. He moved to the kitchen first to set the kettle, before disappearing to the library to find the papers his Master worked most recently on. These were hopefully all the papers he wanted, Greg not having been told to go through the folders. With the papers put neatly together, he moved back into the kitchen, preparing his Master's tea. Tea bag, hot water, three quarter of the cup, bit of milk, two spoons of sugar, already stirred, tea bag disposed and ensured that no single bit of the tea leaves had slipped out of the bag and stayed in the cup.   
Greg was just about to leave the kitchen before he reminded himself -- biscuits. Going for his Master's favourite box, he placed three of them onto the saucer, before he actually moved back to his Master's room. He didn't knock, having been told to come in, and not wanting to disrupt his Master, and placed his tea and biscuit onto the coffee table next to his armchair, moving to put the papers onto his desk, before returning back to his side, letting himself down cross legged, head tilted up in the hope of some kind of confirmation. 

Gregory was a curious creature indeed, very eager, and all the more palpable for Mycroft to mould to his liking. It tickled him. Typically, his nonchalance was hardly feigned; most of his reactions weren’t rehearsed, or masked as his closer co-workers—those who had a right to speak to him that way, if at all— would imply. Nay, the truth of the matter was that it took a significant bit of effort to truly surprise him, and Greg’s impeccable desire for approval never failed to humour him. There was a reason he kept the younger man around.  
He was reminded of it when his eyes danced to the porcelain cup and plate, the signature biscuits seemingly waving their hullo at him. A measured reach of the arm propped a biscuit from the saucer and, in an impeccable display of munificence, he bestowed it upon Gregory’s lips. “I am very cross with you, Gregory, but there is no reason to punish you unbidden. You haven’t eaten since yesterday night, I presume, for I did not allow you breakfast this morning.” He allowed the man to munch at the biscuit as Mycroft lifted the cup and took a sip, eyes closed, unable to recall the last time he’d managed to sit in on an evening uninterrupted. “We must discuss your share of labour in my manner; simply sitting will not do. How do you suppose you can make yourself useful to me?”


	3. Chapter 3

Greg's shoulders sank in reassurance as his Master extended a hand for a biscuit, certain to have done everything right and ready to shift his focus from approval to general alertness of his Master's needs, as the cookie suddenly appeared in front of his face. The slave's face brightened up quite immediately. Not only because his Master has thought about him, but also because... well. It was a biscuit. Sweets and treats were rare enough, and Greg would be damned if he wouldn't enjoy them, even in situations like these. Usually, he was allowed to bring himself a plate from the slave's dining room when his Master wanted him to eat close by, being offered Master’s food here in private really wasn’t usual.  
"Thank you, Sir.", he replied, maybe a little more excited than he should, trying a small smile in return as he leaned forward to start nibbling on the biscuit. He would want to nuzzle once more against his Master, but he really didn't want to destroy the nice situation he somehow managed to fall in, so he simply continued to eat out of his Master's hand. 

"Oh, yes, of course, Sir.", he replied after he swallowed, glad he had not burst out his ideas about his usefulness at the doctor's office. "...maybe I could help in the kitchen, Sir? ...downstairs, I mean, for the other slaves... there are lots of vegetables to cut?", he offered, not sure how forward he should be about these matters. 

Crumbs fled from his fingers when they rubbed together, the friction causing them to rain down upon the carpet, but both parties seemed unfazed, merely soaking the moment.  
He had assumed Gregory would request to remain with him, although he was pleasantly surprised to find that his slave’s concerns remained in keeping his stay under the eldest Holmes. He hummed in contemplation, running a hand along the subtle seams of his trousers. Perhaps he would allow a day or two, certainly the cook would appreciate an extra set of hands, however, he would be lacking a personal helper. Mycroft looked down at the man. He appeared to be hesitating, careful at the very least even after his Master had announced he wouldn’t be punished without reason.  
“Speak. Elaborate if you must.” A thumb ran quickly across the corner of Greg’s mouth to dust off a small group of crumbs that had gathered in the rare feeding. He offered a bland smile, one that didn’t quite meet his eyes. 

The crumbs on the floor would have to be removed before anyone stepped into them, Greg noticed, certain to clean them up rather soon. Master wasn't going to appreciate the dirt after all, and the maids wouldn't come in until tomorrow morning.  
Master didn't seem to be obviously opposed to Greg's offer, and Greg supposed he should be happy about being able to spare his knees for a while, but... that was not quite true, was it? He was happy for not being sold off, for not being more of a nuisance or being in more trouble, but not too happy about leaving his Master alone. Not after the trust to his abilities was already harmed so much. Being offered to speak up allowed to make sure that his true intentions weren't lost, and he was glad Master even picked up on that. "...I want to be good, Sir.", he started, glancing up again in a try to decipher his Master's emotions as much as he could to be sure that he was moving on safe terrain. "I'd like to help _you_ , Sir, would prefer to... stay here? If there is anything I could do for you, Sir? Anything?" He has worked hard to please his Master; He didn’t want to be sent down and forgotten in the kitchen. 

A creak followed the Englishman’s movements when he leaned back against the recliner, folding a leg atop his knee. He considered Gregory’s request, sipping the now lukewarm tea; its richness teasing the lingering taste of his own bite of biscuit. The majority of his time spent with his slave was stationary; rarely did Mycroft have to bustle across London—if he needed errands to be done, he’d send Greg.  
A flicker of grey scanned his slave, he’d been advised against putting a strain on his knees, although the man seemed to be perfectly capable of walking, if a bit slow. He’d have to test his resistance. 

“I’m not certain you’re capable enough to work by my side.” And his devotion; another sip and the soft crunch of a bite framed the thin layer of anticipation emitted from the man at his feet. He pretended not to notice the discouraged expression that flashed briefly across the slave’s striking features. “You are well aware that I am very demanding, if you choose to place yourself in a position where I will make use of you, you should expect that I will not be lenient regardless of your injuries.” Placing the empty cup upon its saucer with a soft clink, Mycroft entwined his fingers together, resting them on his thigh. “If I am unimpressed with your performance and efficiency, punishment will be swift and severe, as it always is.”

The rejection had been quite expected, and most of the reason why Greg has not asked for it the first time, but that did not mean it was any less disappointing. He pressed his lips together so he wouldn’t sigh, even though the pressure in his chest was quite building, and placed his temple against the side of the armchair.  
"...I'll be good, Sir.", he tried it once more. He'd never be that sulky around strangers, but strangers didn't _know_ him. He had thought that Master should have at least have a grasp to know that Greg was... well. Maybe not capable in his state now, but... generally good _enough_. Five years should have been enough to build some trust, no?  
His head shot up again as his Master continued, and Gregory was quick to nod along. Well. "Of course, Sir.", he replied. "I'm fine, Sir, I wouldn't have asked for any slack. I’m not spoiled.”, he reassured softly, eyes darting up to the empty saucer to check if any biscuits were still on there or if he was to bring it back into the kitchen for a refill. Master really has never been anyone to baby him, and Greg never expected him to. He’d be quite ashamed of himself if he ever came to the point where he needed to be spoiled just to function.

Suddenly, Gregory was not far from a petulant child in his own right. The man’s features were obscured by shadows as he leaned against the chair, and Mycroft had presently resisted the temptation to pinch his ear in a silent retort when Greg spoke once more. His voice still held an octave of hesitance; rightfully so, even the eldest Holmes was unable to decipher the odd mood that had settled upon his psyche, pondering a multitude of issues in order to regain a weight to ground him.

“Then I suppose, with that settled, you may now explain to me what should be done about withholding imperative information from me. Your reasoning,” or lack thereof, he thought bitterly, “is mediocre at best. What do you suppose should have happened if I, unaware of your _condition_ had relied on your ability to transport yourself—and myself, if need be—sufficiently? Hm?”  
It was as though they hadn’t been seated comfortably moments ago, where Mycroft had petted and fed Gregory from his hand. He didn’t usually dwell on issues that had been remedied, but Greg had always been an exception if the offense was deemed severe enough. It was a game of sorts, one he used to pass the time and keep the men around him (more specifically: Gregory and, on occasion, Anthea) aware, and if the time called for it, unsettled. He supposed, with the infrequency, they were unable to suspect when the second shoe would drop; the ultimate goal was to teach. Mycroft impassively ran his knuckles against the blooming bruise upon Gregory’s temple, before pressing in. “Speak, pet.”

The few moments of comfort were quickly dismissed now that his Master spoke up again. Greg lowered his gaze again, his shoulders raising lightly in defence. His head moved as Mycroft pressed against it, giving in to his hand easily, letting him push him down as much as he wanted to establish dominance. At least _pet_ was making Greg kind of hopeful this conflict would settle quickly again. 

Master was right, of course he was, that has been so stupid of Greg, but... "...I didn't think it was that bad, Sir...", he murmured softly. He had been walking perfectly fine, after all. A little slow, at worst. And even when he first started kneeling, it was... a little uncomfortable, but he had felt worse while kneeling on shingles or cold marble. "...you were busy, Sir, I didn't want to interrupt you with something that... stupid." Stupid of him, of course. "...I didn't know I wouldn't be able to stand up until I tried, Sir, I am sorry, that... that was quite bad of me."

“Your incompetence is astounding, Gregory.” The pressure did not let up, even after Mycroft was leaning over his knees and the slave’s face was pressed against the floor; carpet cleaner and polish lingering in the air closer to the legs of his armchair.  
“Are you implying I should be held accountable for your lack of communication? Is a Master ever responsible for a slave’s mistakes?” The hard sole of his shoe replaced his hand as Mycroft felt a wave of disgust for the man. Poorly concealed contempt itched its way across the Master’s features. “You’ve yet to answer the question. What should be done for your lack of action? Your absolute lack of _respect_. If you answer correctly, I may consider allowing you an opportunity to prove your worth. Where shall we begin?” 

The slave's gaze moved from his Master to himself in shame, cheeks flushing once more, as Mycroft pointed out his incompetence. Greg has been just about to crane his neck and start kissing his Master's shoes in apology, as the hand on his face was replaced with a foot, the pressure growing. He was going to stay like this for a while, Greg concluded, just hoping the force on his now bruising temple was going to soften. 

"No!", he gasped, in a wave of panic and forgotten manners, eyes widening in sudden realization that his words could even be interpreted like this. Panic was flaring up in him, and Greg needed a second to catch himself again.  
"No, Sir, of course not, that'd be... That'd be silly, Sir. It was my fault, Sir, mine, I'm sorry, I... I wanted to say that I misjudged, Sir. That was... That was stupid, slaves shouldn't be judging at all, I'm sorry.", he continued to apologize, a few heavier breaths in between his words now. 

What should be done?  
Where they should begin?  
Greg wasn't sure. 

He didn't like offering his own punishments, it was so much harder than just accepting what one was told. And... He was in pain already. The idea of getting a spanking now wasn't really promising. If he got one, he wouldn't be able to sit properly either, not only failing to kneel then...  
He would have asked not to be fed for a while, but he already didn't have a breakfast and it didn't look like he was going to have a dinner either right now. He was both scared that Master would say that he wasn't going to be fed either way and get angry at his lack of appropriate ideas, or... Well, that he would starve in the process.  
"I...", he started, just to fill the silence, swallowing and adjusting a bit as his mind was busy to come up with anything useful. "I could sleep on the floor, Sir. Like... Like an animal, Sir, because... Because only dogs are excused for their lack of actions, not slaves, Sir."

Fury flashed once more, expelled hot and quick until it coloured his cheeks at the sudden outburst elicited between panicked breaths. It appeared Gregory wasn’t oblivious to the apparent discourtesy of his tone when he backtracked, voice muffled by the position. Mycroft dug his heel into the tender flesh irritably after an extended pause where Gregory presumably contemplated what his Master wished to hear. Of course, Holmes had already created a list of possible retribution methods that would allow no room for doubt whether Gregory should or should not speak up about _his_ property. A canning seemed appropriate.  
He’d been brief seconds away from supplying the slave with a generous hint, when Gregory spoke up. A derisive smile followed the suggestion, as though the man had performed something mildly amusing. While the reasoning behind his idea of an accurate punishment wasn’t misguided, Mycroft considered it far too lenient; he wanted immediate results, and informed Gregory of this.  
“Oh, Gregory, simple-minded creature. Certainly, the words you’ve spoken hold every bit of truth,” the pressure let up momentarily, “however, I don’t believe you’ve grasped the severity of your actions. You are correct. A bed is no luxury I am willing to allow yet, however, you must consider the abundance of your mistakes. When have I ever allowed a transgression to pass with little more than a slap on the wrist?” The toe of his shoe guided Gregory’s chin up. 

Greg wasn't stupid. ...for a slave, that was. Above average for a slave was still not even comparable to a Master though, but clever to know that when he heard his Master speak and the pressure lighten on his face, he knew it wasn't the time to relax, but to re-arrange into a slightly more comfortable position. Whatever position might be more comfortable, lying flat on the ground and not wanting to give the impression of trying to wiggle away. 

Soon enough he was craning his neck into the direction his Master's shoe hinted him at, looking up at his Master like he was expected to.  
"Never, Sir.", he replied, trying to stay calm and collected, not eager to ride himself into even more trouble. "...I didn't want to talk myself out of appropriate measures, Sir, I'm sorry.", he murmured, tilting his head a little to kiss the soft leather of his Master's shoe apologetically, while also appreciating the few more moments he got in which he wasn’t able to speak, trying to think.  
By now, even him as a simple-minded creature realized that Master was not going to shy from physical discipline, and - if Greg wanted to at least ease it - he would have to speak up and come up with something good, quickly.  
He would have said that all other privileges could be taken away as well, but his bed, his little chamber, was probably the biggest one he got anyway, and Master wasn't satisfied with that solution even in the slightest. 

Well. There might be one bigger privilege that Greg was using rather... frequently, even if he mostly was asked to do so. The chance of success was slim, but... at least he would try, no? "...you could also gag me, Sir, because-- because if I'm not able to use my tongue for anything good, then I shouldn't use it at all?" Both his punishment, his apology, and his lack of words hadn't worked out too well after all. And while that wasn't anything he has ever seen Master doing... It should be still be a viable option, no? "...in addition to giving up my chamber, Sir?"  
Dark eyes performed a brief vertical dance from the leather before him, to Mycroft’s curved chin. He could almost witness the gears turning in Gregory’s mind, well-oiled and slick, albeit never fast enough to satisfy the stoic man. Greg was undoubtedly making a keen effort to appease him—whether the diligence was intended to save his own hide, or out of honest devotion to his Master, was undetermined. 

Mycroft presented his other shoe, idly running the pads of his fingers across a patch of skin beneath his jaw as he considered the slave’s suggestion. Gagging Gregory may prove its own level of effectiveness, although it would impede his additional punishment; where he intended to conduct a brief experiment on self-control. Perhaps he’d gag the man afterwards.  
With an air of certainty, Mycroft, once more, planted his shoe upon the man’s temple and scanned the paper for a third time that day, feigning indifference. Ignoring Gregory.  
They remained in that position well into the evening, as Mycroft glossed over the files he’d requested earlier, annotated portions of them, and obtained a second cup of tea from the housemaid. In those moments of stillness, the slave was no more than a piece of furniture, acknowledged only when his Master deemed it an appropriate time, satisfied with the negligence Gregory had endured.  
“You have ten minutes—beginning now—to obtain my gloves, the cane, and prepare yourself before I expect you to return.” The extended time, he found, allowed a person’s mind to run with uncertainty. Mycroft hadn’t confirmed what he would do to Gregory, and he relished in causing panic among his property. Of course, it also served its intended purpose, for the slave to obtain the supplies it considered necessary for recovery, to inform the house doctor of a possible visit in the near future, and ground itself emotionally. “Off you go.” He delivered a sharp kick to the man, and pointed at the door.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caning. Lots of it. Enjoy. (More than Greg at least xoxo)

Having an open rejection, even an angry one, would have been easier to handle than the lack of complete response his Master offered. He spent a while continuing to kiss and nuzzle lightly against the other shoe his Master offered, careful not to be too disruptive, but stopped as the man's foot once more moved to pin his head to the ground. 

For a while, Greg stayed attentive, tense and ready to bolt if necessary. But time passed, and he knew he was wasting his energy. An hour in, he finally relaxed, only able to dull the pain on his back, his knees, his head by ignoring it. Just time to time he'd glance up to his Master, see if the situation was going to change any time soon - maybe slightly disappointed that he wasn't sent to get another cup of tea, but Greg did not complain.

As the situation finally did change, it did so drastically and quickly, Greg's first response was to jump back to his knees as the requesting kick was delivered, hissing a bit at the pain shot through him again because of his own stupidity. It wasn't really as if he had time to dwell though, Master not going to appreciate him wasting time. 

"Yes, Sir.", Greg nodded, pushing up to his feet to disappear out of the room, just then letting his shoulders sink a little. ...He was gaining a lot of bruises in the span of a day, he thought, and it would be difficult for him to find a way to sleep somehow comfortably.   
Well, maybe that should be the least of his worries, he assumed, picking up the cane with a bit of a revolting shiver, not quite fond of the instrument.   
Instead of informing the doctor, Greg informed Molly, already assuming that he was far more likely going to be in the need of some emotional support than another medical one. Master's punishments could be harsh, of course, but... He was only being caned. A few welts that would be good with a bit of antiseptic cream he picked up as well, and the thing would be forgotten in the next couple of days. 

Greg slowed down his pace to something more respectable as he approached his Master's room again, knocking softly before stepping in, moving to place down the gloves, the cane, the tub of cream as well as a box of tissues to clean up the cane again, before - after another moment of hesitation - he moved once more to sit down cross legged, gaze kept down, heart beating almost visibly. 

Earlier, a soft melody of raindrops danced along London, decorating its walls with moisture and grey. In a striking metaphoric turn of events, the showers had developed steadily as Mycroft and Gregory’s interaction continued. He had risen to admire the multiplying drops, gliding along the glass, and landing at the windowsill. 

Having heard Gregory re-enter the room, Mycroft continued to ignore him as his fingers drummed lazily, contemplating where he would begin.   
Finally, the Englishman granted Greg more than a brief glance of indifference, and approached him. He took the cane from his charge’s grip, where the younger man presented the instrument to him, and manipulated his sitting slave into an adequate position back on the floor. 

The sharp hits were delivered in quick succession, first on Greg’s thighs, indicating he should shift from his seat, then to the hamstrings and once on his coccyx until he lay splayed out in a similar position prior to being sent off. “How many do you suppose are necessary?” His questions were purposely vague.  
Gregory was a tainted canvas, scribbled with previous brush strokes outlining the larger picture Mycroft would paint. “Quickly now, before _I_ decide for you.”   
The tip of the cane danced across Greg’s back, down to his feet. “Should probably take these off, hm? Thought I told you to prepare yourself; gave you more than enough time to do so.” Another hit, this time on Gregory’s buttocks. “It simply won’t do to have them on. Wouldn’t want to compromise your lesson, would we?” 

Greg let the cane lead his body, moving down and back flat onto the ground. The quick movements of the cane were probably not necessary, but for now Greg didn't even make a sound as he adjusted to his Master's wishes.   
How many were necessary? Greg would have said thirty, but Master had put emphasis on how Greg was apparently not able to see how serious everything was, so maybe rather... "Forty-five, Sir?", he asked softly, not counting those already delivered, swallowing a little as he glanced up at Mycroft again, cheeks blushing lightly at the following reprimand.   
He wasn't always asked to undress for a quick few strokes of the cane, and it always felt so painfully eager for punishment that he’d rather avoid it, so he hasn't quite... assumed it would be included in the _preparation_ process Master asked for. Assumed. The same stupid mistake. He just didn't want to be a bother... 

"...I'm sorry, Sir.", he murmured softly, his hands automatically moving down to his trousers to undo them without breaking his position on the floor. "Ano-", he started, interrupted by the sudden hit on his buttocks, needing a moment to get his voice back. "Another five for me forgetting, Sir? ...please?"

Impatient wasn’t particularly accurate; nevertheless, it was the closest description to how Mycroft awaited, watching with mild interest as Gregory squirmed out of his trousers. “Everything. Off. Now.”   
He used the cane to lift up the bottom of his slave’s shirt until that too was removed from his person, following his briefs and, lastly, his shoes. For each item that was removed, Mycroft was swift in administering a punishing hit for the time wasted in watching his property make himself presentable to his awaiting Master. 

“You needn’t beg, not yet, slave. There will be plenty of time for that as the night progresses.” As he spoke, Mycroft circled around the sprawled man, occasionally stepping on a limb, or finger, before stopping inches away from Gregory’s face. “We will begin with your feet, and move up from there. You are not to make a sound, lest I command you to. You will thank me when you deem it appropriate, if you are incorrect in the timing, I will deliver a new count of strikes until I am appeased. Is that understood?”

With Greg's shirt leaving his body, the large horseshoe-formed bruise came visible, maybe not larger but certainly far more colourful than any bruise Greg ever had before. The power of a horse, after all, was more than his Master could reach. Even with instruments to help gain momentum. 

A few goose bumps build on his skin as he just thought of being caned there, but he was still not twitching too much with every hit that followed. Single hits stung, but that was it. What Greg was not going to look forward to were many hits close to another, placed onto each other, colouring his skin red and leaving broad welts all over it...   
Having Master step onto him with his whole body weight though was not enjoyable either. The slave's muscles spasmed a bit, his body automatically trying to withdraw, Greg not being able to do much about it. 

As Mycroft stopped in front of him, Greg once more craned his neck to nuzzle the tip of his nose against his Master's shoes, nodding in the process. "Yes, Sir, of course.", he confirmed. He would have preferred to know how many he was going to expect on good behaviour, than simply knowing that it would be more and more if he wasn't, but... Once more that was out of his reach.   
Not making a sound could mean in bloody lips he assumed, often digging his teeth into the flesh, but that was fine. As long as he didn't bite the tip of his tongue of -- like his first trainers had always scared him of -, he should be fine. 

The first strike was aimed at the centre of Gregory’s left foot, a series of five other followed, before he moved to the ball of the foot and delivered another five. He observed the slender muscles of Gregory’s back twitch and tense with each time the slender wood made contact with tender flesh. A frown followed the movement, when his slave caned his hips upwards—just a fraction. His reaction was met with Mycroft using his own weight to keep Gregory still as his right foot received a similar treatment. The skin was red, irritated, but he hadn’t caused bleeding, not yet.

His cane’s next target was the subtle curve of Gregory’s claves, an angry red line coming to life, stark against porcelain skin, when Mycroft delivered ten strikes on top of each other with marginal distance between each. By then, the discomfort of the man beneath him was clearly evident, and a sadistic streak tickled Mycroft’s mood. The next five strikes were smacked vertically, on top of the horizontal lines.   
Silence was broken by an orchestra of movement; the cutting hiss of his cane slicing through the air, sharp slaps of skin greeting wood, and London’s nightly shower filled the crevices between a stale hush among Master and slave. 

His toes were curling probably even before the first strike fell, but once it made contact with his soft skin... He remembered being so very ticklish there, but the repeated use of canes, flogs, paddles, or sometimes just the mere walks over hard, cold concrete or lots of pebble stones without the protection of shoes made this only be a distant memory. There were little spaces of his body that never got into the taste of punishment, and even less that could be anything like ticklish by now, thin too thick to allow any silly sensations like these. 

That did not mean it wasn't painful though, Greg pressing his lips together as his body twitched involuntarily, far harder to control than his vocal chords. And Master seemed to be quite aware of that. Little time had to pass until his Master's foot was placed over his naked bum, pressing down to hold him in place and minimize any possible twitching.   
"...thank you, Sir...", Greg breathed as his Master moved his cane to another body part, grateful for the aid presented with his body weight holding him down. What Greg really was not grateful for though, was the web pattern painted onto his calves. Twenty strokes, if he wasn't mistaken by now, ten of them concentrating on such a small space that Greg could only beg that all of the others would be nicely spread out. Instead of raising his voice though, the slave just pressed his eyes together, one of his hands forming into a fist to deal with the sharp waves of pain, his body shuddering at every sound the cane made swooshing through the air. 

Colour bloomed beautifully across the expanse of Gregory’s skin, spreading in ardent streaks of pain as though the blood from his veins pressed against the surface to blossom over the abused skin.   
Mycroft shifted his position, now resting his weight against the middle of Gregory’s back, the only indication that the canning would transfer elsewhere. In a cruel afterthought, Mycroft delivered four strokes to the back of each knee, adding salt and spittle to the wound that had landed Gregory in this position. A fifth stroke was handed to both, simultaneously, before he wailed down on the plump globes and the crevice beneath his slave’s supple ass. 

He had lost count, although it mattered very little. His discipline was well below anything one would consider inhumane; he’d delivered worse.   
But he wasn’t done; didn’t cease the beating until purples and blues aided in the mix of colours. His heel imprinted itself upon the centre of Gregory’s back when he pressed down at a particularly hard buck. “Cease your movement, less I add more.” He thwacked the back of Gregory’s head, and stroked the reddening flesh with a contemplative hum. 

Greg's lips were already opening as the next few hits were delivered to the inside of his knees, his hand flying just quickly enough to push itself between his teeth to kill off any kind of sound he could have made. That was... better. Something to bite onto and something to rest his head on as he tried to relax. Tense muscles only made the pain - and his bucking - worse.   
"I will---" Try? No. "Yes, Sir, I'm sorry.", he pressed out instead, lying flat on his stomach while getting a slap over his buttocks really wasn't that bad. His bum was probably the area most of his body fat was still in, and while his skin was sensitive, it only meant that it would burn for a while and not pain him for days. Until Greg remembered that he was probably going to sit on his buttocks for quite some while now with his knees rendered useless, and the welts on it could actually be far more harmful than he was able to imagine for now. 

While his movement died down, just occasionally twitching and bending, fingers and toes twisting, teeth digging into his hand to keep from squealing, things were getting a little much as time passed. He was shaking by now, pain and heat from the cane and his injuries making him a little light headed. Only having eaten a single cookie today was probably not helping him either. At least, he was not going to feel sick, Greg tried to reassure himself, goose bumps covering his hot-and-cold-at-the-same-time-skin, paining as abused skin moved, a thick layer of sweat covering his forehead and back. 

A loud, cutting slap of the cane met with Gregory’s back next, replacing his foot and only narrowly avoiding the larger bruise. Mycroft didn’t aim to hit it, although, if his hand slipped from time to time, and connected with the swollen tissue, he thought nothing of it. 

His slave was doing a marvellous job at keeping quiet. By now, an occasional grunt, never loud, merely a reflex—just as the fractional twitching—could be heard if he paid close attention to the man rather than the instrument in his hand. Curiosity obtained a firm grasp of the Master, and his next hit went directly against the bruise. If Gregory were to yelp, Mycroft had yet to determine whether or not he’d punish the man further; still, the experiment was to test his slave and his capability to follow orders. Any result would be interesting. Another two hits, both slightly softer than the others, followed.

A clear sheen of sweat beaded itself across the thin, abused skin, reflecting its glimmer against the light produced by Mycroft’s chandelier. Gregory was at his limit, and Mycroft was only too happy to shove him over the threshold. He rested the tip of the cane against the bruise, leaning against it. 

As the cane moved up once more, the slave tensed again, just to relax shortly after. The cane hit his back above his kidney, apparently sparring the place the horse had kicked him, and Greg had to bite his tongue not to start falling into lots of thanking little mewls for every hit that avoided the bruise. 

Still, Greg might have expected that Master really wasn't going to spare him, that the cane would soon enough move back down and play with the bruise. And the first slap of the wooden rod against the abused skin, was enough to make Greg buck. He took in a sharp breath, gasping loudly as his arms scrambled to push his chest up, fight or flight instincts only being able to be repressed for that long, tears spilling out of his eyes.   
For a mere half second, Greg actually contemplated to dash. Just scramble together and run. That surely had to be enough now, no? But the tip of the cane drilling into his flesh made him quickly sort his thought again, and the young man carefully slithered back to the ground, a soft chortled whimper escaping his throat. 

Obvious turmoil was expelled from Gregory and his body language; what he didn’t bleed, he secreted in the form of discomfort. Mycroft pushed further, just a tad, and was rewarded with a whimper, before pushing off his slave and stepping away from him entirely.   
“Turn your hands over; I want to see the palms.” He provided no further explanation, needn’t elaborate, for his message to become clear.   
A shuttering breath followed the order, and Holmes quirked an eyebrow, peering down at the crumpled face to witness the silent suffering Gregory had endured. Perhaps he’d earned a reward of sorts, and if not a reward, then no further punishment after he’d delivered the finishing blows to the palms of his hands.   
His sole pressed against a slender wrist, in order to keep it from jerking away, as he delivered ten solid smacks to the centre of his slave’s left hand. "The other one, quickly now."

Greg was more than aware that Mycroft didn't want to _see_ his palms, but that he wanted to cane them, going to leave little if any actions Greg would be able to perform without cringing in pain in the next couple of days.   
And Greg still wasn't sure how he was going to sleep that night...   
His gaze flickered up as he moved his hand and turned it over, twitching a bit as Mycroft's foot followed onto his wrist, turning his head away as the next few blows followed. Another chortled sound, and he wasn't quite able to stop himself crying any longer, fingers curling up a bit more with every following blow.   
Dread spilled up as he realized that they easily passed the one hundred's smack of the cane by now and he was still told to offer his other hand, the first one retreating back to his head, nestled against his cheek as the other took his first hand's place. 

Mycroft didn’t intend to reprimand Gregory for the silent sob that ruptured swollen, dry lips, not after giving his body a languid and appreciative look. He didn’t take interest in the slave’s physique; although he had, in the past, toyed with the thought of putting his charge to different use inside of his chambers. And, if he was a very _very_ good boy, Mycroft had humoured the idea of allowing him to stay in his Master’s bed.   
Nevertheless, his current attention wasn’t held in the slave himself, rather, the final draft of his work. Every stroke seemed to press against the skin, welts and, now, small beads of blood surfacing from patches were he’d lingered for too long. The colour added in copious amounts to the masterpiece he’d made of the body beneath him, was certainly something to be admired. 

Mycroft leaned down to brush his knuckles against the back of Greg’s head, signalling the end of their session, before he retreated to his bed, sitting against the edge. “Come here, Gregory.”


	5. Chapter 5

A shuddered breath was now pushed out by Gregory himself, tilting his head into the fingers against his scalp. He wished he could just stay here like that for a moment, cry for a while longer until the painful welts and cuts would turn to a more acceptable state. But his Master's order came quickly, and Greg wasn't putting himself in danger in defying his words.  
He felt too dizzy to stand up, going to need a moment or two to figure out how to stand at all with welts throbbing at his feet, and he'd prefer not to waste his Master's time now. He could do that once he was dismissed, after all. Instead, his arms pushed him forward, Greg crawling forward on his tip toes and his elbows, before coming to a halt at his Master's feet again, and, after a bit of hesitation, placed his forehead against his Master's shin.  
"...thank you, Sir.", he whispered quietly, voice hoarse, throat thick, careful not to smear tears, saliva or blood against his Master's pair of trousers.

The weight of Gregory’s head resting against his leg was familiar, and perhaps the sensation of Mycroft’s warmth, after lying on the cold floor would serve to ground the shivering man. Rarely was he involved in the aftercare of his discipline, if it was provided at all. Tonight, he deemed it proper enough to remove his gloves and slather a palm with the lotion Gregory had obediently brought prior to being canned into the ground.  
“You did well, Gregory.” Praise was also a rare occurrence, although, he didn’t typically cause the slave to cry. If he wanted to keep the man stable—frightened yes, but it simply wouldn’t do to have his boy become a mindless twit—it was a simple tax to pay. He took his collar and dragged the man over his lap until his chest and hips were resting solidly against his thighs. “It will sting.” His palm rested flatly on the small of Greg’s back, before his fingers pressed in, massaging the lotion into the warm flesh. 

Did he?  
Just as the praise came Greg even bothered to glance up, surprised to see his Master's hands ungloved, needing a moment to realize that he was actually having the white cream on his fingers. That was... rare. 

At the beginning maybe not so much, the first few months when Greg has not even had the chance to talk to anybody else, constantly surrounded by his Master. By now, he had... friends to do that, and Master was apparently sure that Greg was subordinated enough to have it done by someone else, didn’t need to be completely focused on his Master now and still always have him in his mind. 

His eyes were just as wide and surprised as he felt, for now it being still difficult to hide or conceal any emotion. So it wasn't really that surprising that Greg tensed again, insecurity and fear peaking in his face as he was rested over his Master's lap. It was slightly reassuring that the only thing _stinging_ was the cream - next to the painful welts - and not Master's hand coming down on him now, but... Greg would be a fool to believe that things couldn't turn around quickly if he misbehaved. And still... He just had to be sure, had to ask, before he could fully relax and enjoy the attention Master gave him. "...am I forgiven, Sir?"

Just as Mycroft’s movements had become gentle circles prodding into the reddened skin, he delivered a sharp smack against the right cheek. “Did I grant you permission to speak?” His voice was cool, detached, and framed with a lingering threat as though he hadn’t proven a point already by abusing Gregory further. 

Satisfied when he received no verbal response, he continued. Fingers ghosted across his slave’s flesh, tracing the indent and press of ribs against the man’s sides before dipping into the curve of his spine. A second coating of the antiseptic cream was applied. Traces of it were left behind, he noted, as it took longer for the skin to absorb the thicker layer. His hand moved south, providing a similar attention to Gregory’s backside; perhaps giving the skin a squeeze too hard. It was a cruel game, leaving Gregory hanging, unknowing of his fate, but one he relished in. 

Surprised by the smack, Greg squealed a little. It was actually silly, the flat hand not really being half as painful as the cane has been. Not even on his already abused skin, that was. But it came unexpected and was utterly unhelpful. He had thought their session was over, but now Greg wasn't too sure about that. 

Letting his head hang down in shame, the slave curled up a little, trying to get in a position more comfortable for his psyche, and maybe for his abused body as well. Cuddling up to his Master was maybe not his intention, but... it was kind of helpful to soothe him nonetheless. He winced a bit as his buttocks were squeezed, turning his head a bit, trying to focus on the soft fabric of his Master's duvet under his face and the cooling cream and gentle hands whenever they didn't touch an area of his body throbbing in pain. 

The silence carried them on through most of the time it took to properly slather Gregory with the antiseptic. Once he was satisfied, he took the man by the shoulders and maneuvered him to rest more of himself against the duvet, whilst he reached his slave’s legs next. 

“What did we learn tonight, Gregory? There was more than one lesson to be had today.” His voice was measured, curious, and only mildly ominous as his fingers danced along, lightly gliding across Gregory’s calves and thighs, stopping short at his ankles.

The boy huffed a little as he slithered a little forward with the guidance of his Master, any movement straining him now, even when the heat his body was emitting and the soft feeling of the duvet was making him sleepy. It has been a long day, peppered with pain, fear, hunger, and guilt, and keeping himself awake in this situation was far harder than it probably should be.  
Oh, lessons were thrown in somewhere in there too, Greg nodded in light agreement, but thinking of them now was... not very easy. 

"...don't decide for yourself, Sir, don't lie and don't forget and don't withhold, and say thank you to the doctor, Sir, and don't forget to take your shirt off? Don’t speak without permission...", he offered softly, mind racing to come up with anything he might have forgotten. "...maybe don't underestimate your mistakes, too?"

For the first time in an extended stretch of time, where Mycroft wouldn't have imagined he'd ever hold a fraction of anything but mild convenience for Gregory, he allowed a twitch of his lips. It was too small to be considered a smile, but perhaps something relatively akin to one. He felt the man droop, melting further into the mattress and his Master's lap. It appeared the brunt of today had finally conquered the young man, overwhelming him into a puddle of boneless flesh, rendered virtually useless.

"Correct." Frankly, it was more than he expected from Greg. "You may rest now; the punishment is over. Do not repeat the same mistakes, learn from them." He left his feet alone, too repulsed by the aspect of ever implying he'd stoop low enough to touch them. That was a slave's position, to tend to the master. Instead, Holmes dragged the man back until he was close enough to be accessible for Mycroft, who dipped his fingers under the collar coiled tightly around Greg's neck. It was a silent reminder, his kindness was not to be misinterpreted, nothing had changed.

Greg was considering to ask Master if he could take a nap here. Not even necessarily on the bed, really. He knew that Master took the duvet down the bed whenever it wasn't too cold outside, having it rolled up at the foot of the bed, so maybe he could just slither down and curl up in the pile of fabric until tomorrow... He wouldn't have to move and would just continue being lulled in by Master's touches and warmth. And most likely, the soft material wouldn't strain his body as much as his bed would. 

But as Master pulled him back by his collar again, he was still moving cooperatively back down on the floor, sitting crouched on the pad of his feet between his Master's knees. "...may I get dressed, Sir?", he asked softly, voice clearly still sleepy, cheeks rosy, eyes now brighter, no longer dulled by fear, guilt or pain. Being naked for punishment was one thing. Staying nude afterwards was pulling on his confidence though.  
"And... I'm allowed to sleep in my chamber, Sir, yes?", he asked, just to clarify, not going to get himself back into trouble because of once more deciding about his sleeping place without his Master's agreement. "Or where would you like me to stay?"

Mycroft momentarily ignored Gregory's question in favour of gliding his fingers across the coloured cheeks, stained vaguely by the tears he'd shed. His thumbs slid down past his jaw, pressing there lightly, before curving along the line of the collar. The man was handsome, lithe and pleasantly featured even under the influence of slumber. A moment of this, and then he replied, "Alright. You needn't wear trousers, they'll chaff your skin further. Wear only pants and a shirt, then return to me." He released the man, parting his legs to allow him more room to shift away and obey. 

Normally, he'd send Gregory off immediately after he'd been disciplined, lest he become creative, or bored. Unless he could make further use of him, nothing else was expected of him. Gregory seemed keenly aware of this, though, tentative as he was, it appeared the conclusion of their session had allowed the slave's mind to ease. 

After brief consideration, the Englishman found a more comfortable position, sitting propped against the pillows resting on the headboard, and parted his legs invitingly. "You will not return to your chambers tonight. The privilege has been removed, or have you forgotten already?" The question of a reminder hung, unvoiced, in the air.

The young man kept his curious gaze, even as his Master took his time to reply to him. He was used to waiting, and often, it hardly bothered him. Just when he had to wait for consequences... But well, he wasn't.  
"Yes, Sir.", he confirmed, slightly grateful that he wasn't expected to wear the trousers, that his Master would even think about that. Think about him and his wellbeing. 

He backed out a little, before finally pushing to his feet, needing a bit to find his balance and a comfortable way to walk, stepping on the utter outsides of his soles as he approached his clothes, quick to slip inside his pants and pull his shirt over his head. His hands moved to pick up his trousers nevertheless, folding them nicely now instead of leaving them wrinkled on the floor, taking his clothes and placing them aside before once more moving back to his Master's bed. He crouched down again, preferring to neither kneel or to sit for now, his bum still throbbing, placing his head onto the edge of the bed as it was quite an inviting height. 

"No, Sir.", the young slave was quick to answer, shaking his head a little. He hasn't forgotten what Master had said, he just couldn't remember a clear distinction what he actually decided to be his punishment. Not to mention that there was basically still a difference between his chamber and his bed, no? But that was nothing to argue about. Easier to apologize and admit one's mistake. "...I just wanted to make sure.", he explained himself quietly. 

Watchful eyes absorbed the fluid movement of limbs and muscle working together in an adequate manner that would minimize the discomfort Greg was surely feeling, whilst simultaneously hurrying to execute the order. 

Gregory hadn't always been under Mycroft's ownership, he had been trained at a facility, as his records read, and introduced as a slave after extensive work. Confidentiality did not allow Mycroft to know of previous masters he may or may not have served under, only damage sustained and information relative to his slave's service.  
As he crouched back on the floor before him, Mycroft indicated to the mattress with a singular pat. "Up. Lay down." The slave's dishevelled appearance spelled a likelihood that he may collapse from exhaustion at any moment. "Today, would be nice." His voice held a cutting edge, it's owner seemingly unable to present a pleasantry without a cutting edge to follow it.

Greg tilted his head a little, for a moment confused, then surprised as he glanced up the space his Master patted. Really? That was --- that was new. And Greg was hardly able to hold his excitement as he started to climb up the edge of the bed, his face beaming in enthusiasm.  
After having had a taste of the duvet, Greg was hardly able to contain himself at the prospect of actually sleeping on it and the beautifully thick mattress for the night. 

He liked his bed, liked that he had his own chamber, but -- that wasn't quite the same, was it? And really, Greg would always prefer an appreciating act of his Master to his own privacy. "Thank you, Sir!", he said happily, maybe a tad louder than necessary as he moved to lay down where his Master patted the mattress. Laying on the covers on his belly, head resting on his arms, right next to his Master's thigh, appreciation and comfort found in his face as he nuzzled a bit against the soft covers, rubbing his temples against it. shyly smiling up to Mycroft. 

In certain instances, with the added supplement of Gregory's habitual behaviour, the slave reminded him of a dog, or cat. A pet of sorts, most certainly, and he supposed the man could be considered such. Slaves were sometimes turned to pets, whereas others became servants, or the possibility of bed warmers increased with age. No destiny under an independent rule was concrete.

He sat up a bit straighter in order to obtain a better gander at his eager charge. The change in Gregory's demeanour was imminent, he supposed he should have expected it after subjecting him to the canning. Simply because he could, Mycroft laid a hand, possessive, on the back of his neck, and allowed a comfortable silence to settle and develop into soft sounds of sleep from his sprawled boy.

With Master's hand on his neck, Greg almost expected his collar to be tugged and he directed in a different position again, but as Master didn't even slip his fingers below it, Greg finally allowed himself to close his eyes and relax properly. He was still warmed up, and with Master radiating heat as well, there was little point in making a fuss to ask if he could slip under the blankets as well.  
Instead, his own throbbing body synced with the breathing of his Master, lulling him back into dozing off. Forgotten was the pain and guilt, replaced with content and maybe even a bit of pride for having taken his punishment well enough to let Master let him sleep here... "...g'dnight, Mas'er.", he murmured, lips too tired to operate properly, the man turning his face into the mattress to stifle a following yawn, too exhausted to raise a hand and cover his mouth with it. 

Words slurred and difficult to decipher, Mycroft decided to hum his response instead, he himself growing a bit drowsy at the tranquillity of the scene. He couldn't sleep for long, had to prepare for a meeting with the American embassy occurring tomorrow morning, although his files were so far away... and Gregory looked far too comfortable to disturb. A second glance from his armchair to the dark tuff of hair resting against his leg. A moment longer wouldn't hurt. 

A moment seemed to drag well into the night, until the clock read three in the morning. Shivering had disturbed him, and his hands were cold; with a begrudging grunt, Mycroft turned over and pulled the covers over him and the quaking form, throwing a leg over Gregory's slender hips in an attempt to cease the distracting motion.

The movement around him surprised Greg enough to pull him out of his sleep. Even before he got his own chamber, the last time he shared a sleeping place was when he was just a little boy, so while breathing and sounds weren't disturbing him, movement right next to him did.  
He was blinking a little, trying to see in the dark, for a moment wondering if it was already time to wake up, for a split second unsure how he ended up here before he remembered. It was still dark outside, and while that wasn't really a sign for still being allowed to be asleep, his Master not being up yet was.  
Master often woke up before him, preparing for his work, Greg getting half an hour extra before it was time for him to bring Master his tea and prepare his breakfast. So instead of bothering to raise his voice and ask, he simply turned a little, got more comfortable, lips moving to kiss and caress the soft skin of his Master's thigh, nuzzling against his leg, now that it was placed over his hips and most of his chest, placing his cheek against it before once more dozing off.  
Tender lips caressed the fair hairs of his thigh, and it tightened significantly around him, keeping the lithe figure snug against his abdomen and legs. Gregory had always been particularly affectionate. A man of his standing could certainly use more of it, when the mood was deemed proper.  
The duvet was pulled over Gregory's head, until it reached Mycroft's neck, protecting them both from the chilled air of the window he assumed had been left open.  
He'd have to get up soon and wasn't willing to fall under the spell of slumber.


	6. Chapter 6

Greg had always been quite eager for affection. His first Master said, that was because he had been left too long with his mother and no other siblings she would have to take care of. Greg would not agree, the day he had been separated from her still being the grimmest in his life, and things have never been too rosy for him.  
But either way, he was... craving it. Praise, pats on the shoulder, possessive hands pulling him closer, hugs and touches. Far more than any other slave he ever met did. Greg was well aware of the general consensus in his Master's house, most slaves calling it a satisfying week when they wouldn't have to see their Master, but... for Greg, it was different. 

It was getting a little hot under the duvet, so when he felt Master getting up, Greg crawled up a little, both to poke his head out from beneath the blanket, and to ravel a little in the body warmth Master had left behind. Still sleepy, but clearly attentive eyes followed his Master as he stood up, and after another moment, Greg started to stretch his limbs with sleepy hums and purrs, letting everything get back into place while checking what was still hurting him the most. ...probably his empty stomach, but Greg could wait for as long as it would be until Master told him to leave his bed, just enjoying the softness and warmth and the _privilege_ for as long as he could.

Golden rays had yet to break free of the clouds' ominous grip, and it would probably be quite some time before the sun kissed the sky in a manner visible to those beneath it. Mycroft disappeared behind heavy oak, and a steady stream pounded against porcelain, the only indicator-- with the exception of a thin string of light peeking from the door-- that the Master of the house was present in the washroom. 

Mycroft was a fastidious man, and thus, he washed himself thoroughly of sleep and company, resurfacing only after his hair had been trimmed, face shaven, and teeth brushed. Slender hips were covered by a towel, gripped in one hand as he walked toward the slave laying on his bed. "Comfortable? Make yourself presentable, and be sure to tidy up the bed. Do not keep me waiting."

With Master being in the bathroom, Greg actually dared to move up to his night table and check out the alarm clock he had. Ah. Still fifteen minutes before he usually woke up, and without Master being there to see, Greg didn't even feel ashamed to lazy around a little. 

His own fingers moved against his body, examining it, seeing if he maybe shouldn't get himself checked up by the doctor... But he seemed as fine as he could be, the large bruise on his back probably bothering him the most... It hurt far more, which was probably logical, seeing as Master had... put some attention there. But overall? Greg felt rested and nice, even if throbbing pain was still pulsing with every breath he took, and when Master got back in he couldn't quite help himself but smile at him. 

His smile was shy, maybe just a bit cheeky as he stretched himself once more before pushing himself out of bed to tidy it up. "Of course, Sir. Will you want to eat your breakfast here or should I prepare the dining room?", he asked softly, pulling the sheets into their proper position, his movements having a happy, little twitch to them, hips circling lightly in quiet satisfaction to having had a nice night of sleep. 

Gregory was emitting a fine, almost provocative aura of ease. It was a pleasant change, he'd decided, and one Gregory had earned after the events of last night. The eldest Holmes had enough property fearing him, a bit of personality was decidedly more entertaining.  
And so, Mycroft allowed it, with only an arched eyebrow directed at his slave's radiance whereas he'd normally yank him into action. 

After a moment thought, he realized there had never been an opportunity for Greg to express himself in the morning, in his full state. It was always expected of him to be properly prepared for the morning routine; whether he was a morning person or not was lost to Mycroft. If he was being entry honest with himself, he didn't find that he cared too much.

"I've had enough of this room. Prepare it and set the table-- for God's sake, put some clothes on before you go." His generosity extended only as far as his door was kept shut. He certainly couldn't have a personal slave publicly walking around without trousers!

"Of course, Sir.", Greg replied, eyebrows furrowing for a moment, still fighting with the sheets. As if he would have left his clothes behind. The other slaves would have teased him to death, and his Master probably beaten if he would have run across the path of any other free person on his way to his chamber. 

Satisfied with the bed, the slave moved to the neatly folded pile of clothes he had left behind the other night, slipping into his trousers and shoes with a few, small jumps to get into them quicker, before moving to gather his Master's empty cup of tea from the other day. With a soft nod, he finally left the room, moving down to the kitchen to inform the other slaves about their Master's wishes. 

He raised his shirt for Molly for a moment, let her see his back, the poor girl having been worrying all night for Greg not re-appearing to have her put on the cream. "I'll make it up to you.", he promised, feeling a little guilty, and got a hug in response, before moving to his chamber to get changed and get himself presentable again. He'd have to see that he would get his hair cut sometimes this week, the tousled strands getting longer and longer each day. 

With new clothes on, he went to fetch his Master's tea first. The same kind of trousers, though his shirt today was a button down instead of a simple t-shirt. It wasn't really as if he had too much choice about his clothing, after all, most of his tops being similar in colour and style. He just had a few pieces that were not necessarily considered part of the uniform all the slaves got… 

He knocked lightly at the door frame of Master’s room before slipping inside, placing his Master's cup of tea down, gaze wandering towards him to see if he was going to be needed now. His easy going aura has mostly disappeared by now, replaced by his usual serious and polite self, but his face still seemed radiating in warmth that was usually overshadowed by worry and exhaustion.  
Papers and documents were fondled about, gathered in a folder, spread out once more and separated by relevance. He didn't need to, it was a means of distracting himself and sorting his thoughts accordingly. Managing people, creating propositions and balancing politics.  


Gregory entered just as he'd straightened his tie before the mirror, lips pressed into a tight line of indifference. "You may set the tea down." He didn't look at the man in favour of grabbing his shoes and sitting down. "Come here, now."  
He left the shoes for Greg to take, fingers entwined in a relaxed grip at his abdomen. It was difficult to eat in the mornings, even consuming caffeine provided a challenge. Too much stimuli to be comfortable, he could feel an oncoming headache at the events that would follow today's busy schedule.

He gave Greg a look over. The man seemed to have taken the discipline well, wasn't allowing it to slow him down too much, and it appeared the young man had learned his way about stepping without applying too much pressure on his injuries.  
The only thing Greg hoped for was Master letting him stumble off to get himself some breakfast. By now he wasn't even disappointed that he wouldn't have the time to eat with the other slaves at most weekdays, but just grabbing a sandwich would be nice. Or three, he rather felt. ...or at least get him something in the office?

The slave nodded lightly as he set the tea down, and moved to his Master, crouching down once more to carefully put his Master his shoes on. It was yet a little hard to decide how his Master's mood was, so he opted to be quiet and wait for any indications of his Master’s wellbeing than to ask for it. He was still barefoot himself, apart from the socks, that was, more often than not just slipping into his shoes shortly before they left.  
He remembered how proud he has been at his first pair of shoes he has gotten... His previous owners wouldn't have him any, always afraid that a young boy like him would use the next best possibility to run away. After making sure the shoes were both tied neatly, Greg glanced up again, checking if there was anything else he could offer to do. 

Neutral colours complemented Gregory very well, he’d decided, as he used the close proximity to his advantage in order to straighten his slave’s shirt collar. Dexterous digits lifted the material up and bent it properly around the frame of its stiffness, buttoning his shirt to the very top until the collar was properly aligned. He smoothed the small creases gathered across his shoulders, “Can’t have you looking unkempt, do take better care in the future.” A pointed look was given to the younger male, critical, observing every imperfection, however minimal. 

“There isn’t enough time for you to eat, you’ve yet to finish getting dressed and my appointment is fast approaching.” Mycroft stood, leaving Gregory crouched on the floor as he stepped out of the room, cup of tea balanced precariously between its saucer and the man’s swift movements across the room.

Greg craned his neck a little, allowing his Master to correct his collar. "Yes, Sir. ...thank you.", he murmured softly, hand moving to his neck for a moment, before once more falling down next to his side, and then moving to clasp behind his back.  
Being told he wouldn't have time to eat was... quite sobering and Greg bit the inside of his lips not to pout or purse them in his let down. He could at least hope that whatever meeting Master would have would be accompanied by more slaves and a few biscuits? Sometimes he'd get one or two handed down... Often, more bits of food would find their way beneath the table and into his mouth when the other slaves were fed as well, an off-showing of kindness and a slight challenge between free men. 

"Of course, Sir.", Greg agreed, his stomach - as on cue - churning in protest, the young man's cheeks blushing a little, as he followed his Master out of the room, ready to turn to his chamber on their way through to get finally dressed. 

Routine was a dreadful, astonishingly monotonous thing, but one Mycroft could rely on.  
His feet led him into the kitchen, where only the soft sounds of people chewing, and the kettle's low hum accompanied the scene. The scent of toast wafted across the room, and Mycroft dully noted Gregory had, in fact, not eaten a proper meal. He wouldn't be eating a proper meal for some time, but a distracted slave, focused more on stomach pains and thoughts of something consumable, was far less useful than one who could observe and take notes.  
With an air of finality, Mycroft took several pieces of toast from the slaves' table, and wrapped them in a napkin. If Gregory was waiting for him already, he'd be rewarded with a piece, if he wasn't... the tantalizing incentive should be enough punishment he'd endure.  
Greg disappeared in his chamber once more, getting out his shoes and making sure they were polished, before putting them on. He remembered hiding sweets in his pillow case when he was younger, until he once got caught and nobody believed him he had collected that many, accusing him of stealing. Right now though, a lemon or mint drop would be quite appreciated, just to trick his stomach into thinking that he has already eaten... 

Greg did not pick a suit jacket for his button down, as Master has not mentioned anything, usually picking his nicer clothes when the causes were _really_ important, so he wouldn’t dirty them mindlessly, but Greg put one of his grey bow ties into his shirt pocket. Just in case.  
Taking his light coat and checking himself over in the mirror once more, before moving back to Master's study to take his suitcase, making sure both his laptop and charger were inside before moving to the corridor to wait for his Sir, craning his neck a little to glance outside the window. 

It was still pretty early, no gardeners working yet, nor was anyone walking their pets this early in the morning. Just the newspaper boy was sure to appear soon enough, Greg already placing his Master's suit case into his other hand so he'd be able to take the newspaper on the go to the car. 

Mycroft had also opted for a slice of toast, liberally coated in a sweet spread he’d taken quite a liking to, and after a mild look from the cook, he found himself reaching for an apple as well.  
The items were settled in a lunch bag that was then handed to an awaiting Gregory at the door. He allowed a small nod, noting his pet’s choice of clothing. It wasn’t overdone, yet still emitted an air of crisp intellect under Mycroft’s ownership; simple and smart. 

Their eyes met, briefly, before Gregory had turned to open the door. A fleeting pat— heavy handed and quick—on the head was given to his slave before exiting the manor to their awaiting ride in a compact, inconspicuous vehicle.  
Today, he was not meant to impress, it implied; they would simply engage in negotiations.  
Gregory had left his side in favour of obtaining the morning paper, allowing Mycroft to settle himself comfortably. 

“You may place the items on the seat, find a comfortable position on the floor; we will not be stopping for some time.” The suitcase was pulled closer to himself as he pulled out his phone, knee tapping evenly against Gregory’s side once he’d settled. The question was unspoken, and one Greg must have already known the answer to: food was certainly in the bag. 

Greg's gaze turned from the window as he heard the steps, so sure of themselves that he immediately knew it had to be his Master. No slave would dare to stomp around like this. At least not with their Master still being present at home. 

He took the bag handed to him without a word, opening the door for his Master before adjusting both the bag and the suitcase in one of his hands to grab the newspaper on the fly. His mind was mostly swirling in hope for the lunch bag though, unconsciously biting his lips as he climbed into the car after his Master.  
As instructed, he placed the items on the seat, before moving around a bit, sitting down crosslegged in the cramped space, trying not to lean against the back of the seats of the driver, his chin resting on the middle seat of the vehicle to keep his back away from touching anything. 

Not stopping for some time? So not Master's office? Mh.  
Not too sure what to think of that, he fished out his bow tie from his shirt jacket and placed it to the items on the seat, making sure that Master would at least see him moving from the corners of his eyes. Not really expecting a reaction now, his eyes settled on the brown bag almost on their own, Greg continuing to bite his lips and the inside of his cheeks, swallowing down saliva. 

The glowing screen, announcing miniature letters in formats and coding meant to be deciphered by trained eyes only, held his attention for as long it took the driver to pull onto the city streets.  
Once they’d gained a steady momentum, his thumb ceased its rhythmic slide of the screen, and rested against the side of the phone instead. It remained within his sights, and his position hadn’t changed, but his head turned a fraction toward Gregory. The man had curled obediently on the floor, nearly drooling as he regarded the lunch bag with unsolicited scrutiny. If the brown paper had been able to speak, or react, it might’ve blushed at the attention.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback appreciated x


End file.
